When a Lioness Hunts (A Lion's Pride Book 8)

by Eve Langlais

  “I have an appointment with someone in unit five C.”

  “Come back another day.”

  “My appointment with her is today,” Theodore insisted.

  “It’s fashionable to be late.”

  “Not for work it isn’t.” He fought to keep his cool. Why was the man on the intercom being so difficult?

  “Whatever. If you’re just going to whine about it, then come in.”

  With a click, a smaller door within the gate popped open, and Theodore stepped through, noticing the camera that watched him. The security wasn’t too surprising. In the heart of the city, crime flourished. The residents of this condominium obviously valued privacy and safety.

  It also had a surprising amount of greenspace. Theodore paused halfway to the massive condo building. While the driveway cut a dark swath that formed a roundabout at the front doors and also veered off to the right to an underground garage, the rest of the place was green. From the fence to the structure itself, bushes and trees flourished. People lay on the verdant grass, faces tilted to the warm sun.

  The lazy indolence made him uncomfortable. Theodore was happiest at work. When he ran out of work to do, he found other things like cleaning, sorting his clothes by style and color, or rearranging his cabinets for maximum efficiency. He only spent one hour a day reading as his treat. His last girlfriend called him rigid and boring. He was all right with that. Although, with more than ten years passed since they’d broken up, might be time to revise his requirements in a partner.

  As Theodore neared the building, he noticed the edges of a gate peeking above the door. It probably dropped down to cover the glass entrance. Interesting security feature.

  The cameras by the door were obvious. The video eyes saw everything. He chose to ignore them.

  Made of glass and trimmed in golden metal, the door slid open at his approach. That might have seemed like a lack of security until he caught sight of the beefy security guard behind a desk, who immediately zoned in on him. Theodore would have to check in.

  Off to the side of the entrance, there were couches and some wide comfy chairs. A surprising amount of people lounged there. Mostly women. All quietly staring. Not saying a word. Kind of eerie.

  For some reason he got an odd chill when one of them winked and smiled.

  “Can I help you?” the guard asked. His nametag read Garfield.

  “Hello, I’m Theodore Loomer from the IRS.” He reached for his wallet, and the guard stood.

  “Hands where I can see them,” the guard barked, proving he wasn’t as indolent as he first appeared.

  “Just getting my identification.” Theodore dropped the wallet open, flashing the badge.

  The guard relaxed. “The IRS, eh? Here to see who?”

  He pulled out a copy of the letter sent to the first name on his list. “Melly Goldeneyes.”

  “Ooooh, Melly’s in trouble,” someone shout-whispered behind him.

  He turned, and every single person appeared busy and looking elsewhere.

  The guard handed back the letter. “You’ll want the fifth floor. Stairs or elevator?” The guard pointed in two directions.

  “Aren’t you going to buzz her?” he asked.

  “And ruin the surprise?” Garfield smiled. It should have reassured, but it held a hint of smugness.

  “Er, thank you.” Clutching his briefcase, Theodore headed for the elevators, keeping an eye on the lounging people. While they seemed to ignore him, he couldn’t help but feel at the same time they watched him intently. His skin prickled with awareness, and the urge to turn around for a peek meant he gritted his teeth and forged ahead.

  The elevator already sat with the door open. Theodore entered, pressed five, and turned around. As the doors closed, he was struck by the sudden turn of all the heads to peer in his direction. He could have sworn he heard laughter.

  The interior of the cab, like the rest of the condo, was lavish, done in hues of gold with mirrors. His nose twitched. Somebody must have brought their damned pet with them. He could tell by his sudden urge to sneeze.

  He put a handkerchief to his mouth.

  The elevator spilled him onto the fifth floor just as it hit him.

  Achoo.

  As he recovered, he heard a door slam shut. Odd, he’d not seen anyone. A glance around showed a gray corridor—slate-colored carpet, pale walls, gold sconces to light the way.

  Grip tight on his briefcase, he strode down the short hall to the T intersection. Left or right?

  A glance on either side showed odd numbers to his left, even to his right. The doors were simple, and while they lacked a glass eye for peeping, he noted the cameras that watched his every move.

  How much must a place like this cost given the amenities so far? How did the people he’d been sent to investigate afford it?

  He chose a direction and his steps only slowed as he reached an open door. Music spilled out of it. A peek inside showed chaos.

  So much chaos. Enough he yearned to grab a broom and sweep a clear path.

  His nose wobbled again with an itch. Whoever lived here had a cat or a dog. Maybe both. This might get ugly. Hopefully he could do this interview quick.

  He knocked lightly on the open portal.

  No one replied.

  “Hello?” he called, but the music masked his presence and he wasn’t about to shout over it.

  He stepped over the threshold and glanced around. A basic layout. Living room combined with dining and kitchen. A large window at the far end provided natural light. He noted the couch with its cushions on the floor, which made his left shoulder lift and lock. What kind of slob lived here?

  The owner of the kitchen had decided to use the counter as a pantry with several open cereal boxes marching along, a bowl of fruit big enough to feed a family, and dishes in the sink.

  His other shoulder tried to hunch. This mess wasn’t his problem.

  He took in more details, from the pizza box on what might be a coffee table—hard to tell with the bottles, cans, and game remotes covering it.

  The televisions took up an entire wall. A big central flat screen flanked by four smaller ones. There were doors on the other half of the apartment. The one closest to where he stood was probably a closet. The one with clothes spilling out of it possibly the laundry. So much laundry.

  Stepping carefully, he made his way through the tornado-stricken apartment. Surely the owner was here given the open door. He narrowly avoided stepping on a thong. A tiny scrap of light blue lace fabric.

  The tickle grew stronger, and yet the place didn’t smell. Not badly at least. Something scented the air, rather pleasant actually.

  He moved past the underpants and the torn open box of snack cakes to the door past the horrifying laundry. He found the bouncing ass when he glanced through the next door.

  A nice ass.

  He remembered the driver’s license picture.

  “Ahem.”

  Head down, ass in the air, scrabbling for the sticky note that had fallen out of the sheaf of papers in her hand, the woman peeked between her legs, upside down. Her hair was a dark skein that tumbled, her eyes rimmed in thick lashes, and her brows nicely defined.

  She eyed him. Probably admired the fine crease of his slacks compared to her rather ratty attire. Her jeans needed to be replaced given the number of holes.

  “Who let you in?” she asked, still not straightening. Part of her buttocks peeked from the slit across it. Her panties, like the one pair he’d seen, were obviously not full bottomed.

  If she wore any.

  He looked away. “The door was wide open, and no one answered when I called out.”

  “Are you the IRS fellow?” she asked, reaching for another sticky note on the sole of her shoe. Retrieving it, she unfolded herself—though not very far, as she only stood just over five feet—and looked up at him.

  She was tiny. Tight. And somehow in his space. His bubble. He took a step back. “Are you Melly Goldeneyes?”

 
; “Depends on who’s looking.”

  “I’m from the IRS.”

  “According to my letter, you’re early.”

  He tapped his watch. “Two p.m. on the nose.”

  “Haven’t you heard of being fashionably late?”

  “We have an appointment.”

  “I know, which is why I was organizing my stuff.” She swept a hand to show all kinds of paper spread on the bed. “Tada!”

  He glanced at the pile then her. “You can’t be serious. That’s not organized.”

  “Are you sure? Because it’s all in one place.”

  He resisted the urge to shove at his glasses. The tickle in his nose got stronger. “Please gather them and bring them somewhere we can sort through them properly.”

  “Now?” she asked.

  “Yes, now.”

  Her lips turned down. “But I was going to play soccer on the roof.”

  “Not until we’ve completed our business.”

  She sighed. “Can’t we just get this over with? Yeah, I might have been a little creative with the stuff I claimed, but even Arik says my role is hard to define.”

  “Who is Arik?” Her boyfriend? Keeper? Someone who needed to hire this woman a maid?

  “Arik’s the boss.”

  “He employs you.” He pulled out the file and flipped to the page. “Pride Industries. Family owned and operated.”

  “Not just family, or that’d be incest.” Her nose wrinkled. “We’re careful about those kinds of things.” She eyed him up and down. “How’s the genetics in your family?”

  “None of your business,” was his tart reply.

  “Feisty. I like it.” She flopped on the bed. “Shall we skip the small talk and go straight to the sex?”

  “Excuse me?” His finger went to his tie as it constricted him. Sweat formed on his brow. This woman wasn’t acting as expected.

  “Please. I know how this works. I was a bad, bad girl and you want to help me with my problem. We both know you’re waiting for me to bribe you to make this little IRS thing go away.”

  “You can’t buy me off,” he said tightly.

  “Well, duh. I don’t have any money, meaning sex is the obvious and, might I add, your best choice.” She winked. “Don’t worry, nerd boy. I am going to rock your world.”

  She went to touch him, and he recoiled, fast enough he hit the wall. “We are not having sex.”

  “Why not?” she huffed. “Don’t tell me you’re married. Do you have a girlfriend? You must. Only a jealous biatch would have you dressed like an uptight yuppie. I mean look at how straight that tie is.” Once more she reached.

  Again, he dodged. “Don’t touch me.”

  “What’s wrong? Afraid wifey poo will find out? You can shower when we’re done. She’ll never know. Although she might wonder why you have suddenly become a tiger in bed. Which is why I should probably warn you that sex with me will ruin you for other women.”

  “I am not married, and we are not having sex.” The nerve of her. Bribing him with sex rather than admit she lied on her taxes.

  Look at him saying no. Being morally superior to most people meant he didn’t get laid often.

  “No sex. Gotcha. In these times, gotta be careful. All kinds of diseases running rampant, but I assure you I am clean. But if you don’t want to take my word for it, then I guess I can offer you a blowie.”

  “No.”

  “Two blowies and a finger in your bum?”

  His cheeks clenched. “Ms. Goldeneyes, this is most annoying. I am not here to play games with you.”

  “That’s a shame.” She rolled on the papers. “I like games. Especially when I get to slap stuff around. Do you like to be slapped?” She batted her lashes.

  He’d never been more tempted to crack his hand on someone’s backside. Instead he straightened his spine and said in his sternest voice, “Gather the receipts and bring them to the kitchen table. We will work there.”

  “You wanna do it on the table? Kinky. I like it. Are we going to pull a retro nine and a half weeks and incorporate the fridge? I think I’ve got a can of whipped cream and some butter in there.”

  “Mold, too, I imagine,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t go near the cheese. I’m pretty sure it’s spawned little curds and they’re about to take over the entire dairy drawer.”

  His nose wobbled as it itched. “Do you have a cat?”

  Her lips stretched into a wide smile. “As a matter of fact, I do. A big pussy. But she’s nice when you get to know her. Pet her just right and she might even scratch.”

  “Isn’t that purr?” he muttered, doing his best to keep his gaze off the woman sprawled on the bed, but then that meant seeing various lingerie strewn over the room and imagining her wearing it.

  “Naw, when my pussy is happy, she yowls and bites.” She winked. “Wanna meet her?”

  His mind kept straying into the gutter, which might have been why he was rather terse as he said, “Bring the receipts to the table and keep your feline locked up. I’m not in the mood to pet any pussies today.”

  Chapter Two

  How fascinating. Mr. Prim and Proper walked away, and Melly wanted to know why. Was it that he didn’t like women?

  He’d certainly noticed her. She wasn’t blind. He was attracted to her. She could smell it in the air.

  Was he playing hard to get?

  She did so love a challenge.

  Could be she wasn’t his type. Which would suck because he was very much her type. A hot geek in a suit begging to be peeled, with an impeccably tied cravat and thick-rimmed glasses she wanted to tear off. The IRS had sent her a hot nerd.

  I could totally see myself doing numbers with him. All night long. Rowr.

  “Excuse me?” he said, having obviously heard something. He glanced over his shoulder. She smiled wickedly.

  He quickly turned away and seated himself at her table. He shoved crap aside to have a clear spot to put his briefcase down.

  He clicked it open. She kind of hoped to see a treasure trove. Maybe some dildos, nipple clamps restraints. To her disappointment, it was filled with paper.

  He pulled forth a folder and closed the case of broken dreams. Setting it on the floor, he then put what she assumed to be her file down.

  “Shall we begin?” he asked.

  Curiosity drew her closer, and she jabbed a finger at the folder. “What’s that?”

  “Your dossier.”

  “What’s it say?”

  He bent down to rummage in his briefcase as he replied, “That you need to show me your receipts that we might discuss them.”

  Talk about uptight. She should offer to send him nudies. The poor man looked like he needed to tug a few off to relax.

  The poor human was much too rigid. She didn’t need her nose to realize she dealt with a human because a shifter male, upon seeing her tits down, ass up, would have done something dirty like slap her ass or hump it. He probably would have suffered a maiming as well—she chose whom she took to bed.

  Upon seeing Mr. Hot Nerd, she’d been prepared to tear off his clothes, thinking she could kill two birds with one stone—remove the IRS threat and get shagged.

  But he said no.

  Her ego demanded a retry. But first…she swept the table clean.

  The man cringed as the stuff hit the floor. “Would it have been so hard to put those things away?”

  She blinked at him. “Away where?”

  He poked in the direction. “Clothes in the laundry. Dishes in the kitchen.”

  “And have the maid think I don’t need her? I couldn’t do that to her.” She shook her head.

  “You have a maid?” The glance he tossed around the room appeared skeptical.

  “She comes once a week. She says I’m her best client. I keep her busy,” she confided.

  “I’ll bet,” he muttered. “And are her wages part of your receipts?”

  “Of course not,” she hotly replied. “Cleaning is not work-rela
ted unless I have a home office. Even I know that.”

  “I’m glad you understand the difference. Now if you don’t mind”—he tapped the table—“the receipts.”

  He was so cute when he was forceful, with his dark hair cut in perfect short lines. His lips could use a good chewing.

  Only he’d said no.

  The nerve.

  Given he wouldn’t budge, she hit her bedroom and emerged with an armful of receipts and paper. She dumped it on the table, some of it fluttering and slipping off before she sat across from him.

  “Tada.”

  He looked positively dumbstruck. He probably didn’t often have people like her who obeyed him. To think, people were scared of the IRS. She planned to cooperate and make this easy on him. Maybe then she’d get to take off that tie, or at the very least bat it.

  He snared a thin sheet of paper and frowned. “This bill is for this current year. I only want the ones applying to last year’s taxes.”

  “They’re in there, too, along with the year before that.”

  “You mean, all of this…” He didn’t sigh. She could tell he wanted to, but he held himself back.

  Could she push him over that edge? “I like to keep them all in a drawer in my bedroom. Except now it’s mostly the dresser on account I haven’t sorted it out in a while.” Surely, he’d snap.

  “For future reference, you should separate them by year and type,” he stated, pulling at some of them, creating piles.

  “That sounds long and boring.” Hypnotic though. She watched his hands, eyes bouncing, feeling her ass wiggling in the seat, wanting to pounce.

  “Being organized will help you conform to the law.”

  He probably wouldn’t appreciate her thoughts on laws, so she leaned forward on her elbows and stared at him instead. “Do you have a name?”

  “Theodore Loomer.”

  “Such a serious name,” she teased. “You seem more like a Theo.”

  “You may address me as either Theodore or Mr. Loomer.”

  “Mr. Loomer. Sounds like something I’d call a teacher.” She winked. “I like it. Would my teacher like to give me a hands-on lesson?”

  If she hadn’t watched, she might not have seen the flare of his nostrils.

  “If we might return to the business at hand. Shall we discuss your tax return?”